Second to None (11 page)

Avery glanced down, and almost unconsciously plucked a solitary gold thread from his coat. Where he had once worn a twist of gold lace to distinguish him as an admiral's aide, his flag lieutenant.

Bethune would already have one of his own, as Valentine Keen had had at Halifax. There could be resentment.

Avery said, ‘If you so requested, I should be pleased . . .' He smiled again, faintly, as though his mind were somewhere else. ‘Honoured to accompany you. I can still stand a fair watch, and I have nothing to go home for as yet.'

Adam recalled that Avery was the nephew of Sillitoe, that man of power whose name was rarely out of the newssheets. Another nephew. Another coincidence.

He held out his hand. ‘I'm glad you came. I'll not forget.'

Avery took a small package from his pocket and unwrapped it with great care.

The locket. He had seen his uncle wearing it whenever he had been on deck with his shirt unfastened.
As I do.
He took it and held it to the sunlight, the perfect likeness, Catherine's bare shoulders and high cheekbones. He was about to turn it over to examine the inscription when he saw the broken clasp and severed chain. As clean a cut as if done by a knife. His fingers closed tightly upon it. No knife. The marksman's shot must have done it.

Avery was watching him.

‘I have been unable to find a local craftsman with skill enough to repair it. I would have sent it to her . . . Now, I think it better that you should be the one, sir.'

They faced one another, and Adam understood. In his way Avery had been in love with her also. Now that she needed help, there was no one.

‘Thank you for saying that. Perhaps I shall be able to return it myself.'

Avery picked up his hat, knowing he would do nothing of the kind. Suddenly he was pleased at what he had done. He looked at Adam, and for a fleeting moment he saw the other face. He smiled.
Like a good flag lieutenant
.

Galbraith was at the entry port when they came on deck, and saw them shake hands, as if each was reluctant to break the contact. He noticed, too, that the visitor paused and glanced almost involuntarily at the mainmast truck, as if he still expected to see a flag there.

In his cabin once more, Adam took out the locket and read
the inscription, and her voice seemed to speak to him as it did whenever he received a letter from her.

She must have remembered those words when she had watched
Unrivalled
standing out into Falmouth Bay. As she would always look for the ship which would never come.

He turned as Galbraith appeared by the open screen door.

‘Concerning tomorrow, sir?'

It was the only way. Perhaps Galbraith understood, and in time might share it.

‘Take a glass with me first, eh?'

He slipped the locket into his pocket, out of sight. But the voice still persisted.

‘There is something we must discuss, before I meet the vice-admiral tomorrow. You see, I have a plan . . .'

It was a new beginning for all of them.

LIEUTENANT LEIGH GALBRAITH
strode across the quarterdeck and reported, ‘The watch is aft, sir!' Like his unerring steps over and past ringbolts and other obstacles, it was part of an unchanging routine at sea. He even touched his hat to the shadowy shape of Lieutenant Massie, whom he was about to relieve.

It was still quite dark, but when his eyes eventually became accustomed he would see the approach of dawn in the fading stars, the hardening of the horizon. Massie stifled a yawn.

‘West-by-south, sir.' He stared up at the pale outlines of the sails, filling only occasionally with the wind across the starboard quarter.

Galbraith glanced at the helmsmen, eyes flickering in the shaded light from the compass. Other shapes were moving into position: the morning watch, when the ship would come alive again.

Galbraith looked at the tiny glow from the cabin skylight. Was the captain awake, or was it a ploy to keep the watch on its toes?

He thought of Captain Bolitho's return from his meeting with the vice-admiral. Galbraith had no idea what had been said, but the captain had come back on board barely able to conceal his anger.

Galbraith tried to dismiss it. At first light they would sight and resume contact with another frigate,
Matchless
of forty-two guns. She had been in the Mediterranean for three years attached to one squadron or another, and would
therefore be very familiar with shipping movements and the lurking danger of pirates. Corsairs.

Matchless
was commanded by a senior post-captain named Emlyn Bouverie, a man who came from a proud naval family, and was thought likely for promotion to flag rank in the near future. Galbraith did not know him, but those who did apparently heartily disliked him. Not a tyrant or martinet like some he had known, but a perfectionist, who was quick to reprimand or punish anyone who fell below his own high standards.

He said, ‘You are relieved, sir.' He lifted the canvas hood from the master's chart table and peered at the log with the aid of a tiny lantern. They would sight land before noon, according to Cristie. He had never known him to be wrong.

He steadied the light with care. The coast of North Africa: to most sailors a place of mystery and strange superstitions, and best avoided.

He studied Cristie's fine handwriting.
6th June, 1815.
What would this day bring?

Captain Bolitho had called his officers and those of senior warrant rank together in his cabin. Galbraith straightened his back and glanced at the skylight again. Remembering it.

The captain had described the mission. A visit to Algiers, to investigate. Their intentions were peaceful, but guns' crews would exercise twice a day all the same. It was said that Algiers was protected by some six hundred guns. It would not be much of a contest if the worst happened.

The captain had looked at their faces and had said, ‘There was a French frigate named
La Fortune
in the Western Mediterranean before Napoleon's surrender. Others too, and it is known that the Dey of Algiers and the Bey of Tunis have offered sanctuary to such men-of-war in exchange for their services. The prisons are still filled with Christians, people snatched from passing vessels, and held on no more serious charge than their religious beliefs. Torture, slavery, and open acts of aggression against merchantmen sailing under our protection – the list is endless. With our “allies” . . .' he had made no effort to conceal his contempt ‘ . . . we had a chance to put paid to this piracy once and for all. Now with Napoleon at the head of his armies again, the Dey in particular
may use our predicament to gain even more control of these waters, and beyond.'

Somebody, Galbraith had thought Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines, had asked about the sailor they had rescued and later buried at sea.

Captain Bolitho had answered shortly, ‘Probably one of many.' And again something like bitterness had crept into his voice. ‘Which is why Captain Bouverie intends to make a peaceful approach. Vice-Admiral Bethune's squadron is hard pressed as it is. He sees no alternative.'

Bouverie was the senior captain, as he reminded them often enough by hoisting signals at every opportunity. Galbraith half-smiled. He would make a good admiral one day.

The master's mate of the watch said softly, ‘Cabin light's out, sir.'

‘Thank you, Mr Woodthorpe. I am glad
you
are awake!' He saw the man's teeth in the dimness.

How would it be this time? He thought of the moment when they had shared wine together; it had shown him another side of Adam Bolitho. He had even touched on his early days at sea as a midshipman, and had spoken of his uncle, his first captain. Opening out, demonstrating a warmth which Galbraith had not suspected.

After his visit to the flagship, he had shut that same door. At first Galbraith thought that he had expected some priority, a preference because of his famous surname, and had resented Bouverie's slower, more cautious approach. But Adam Bolitho was a post-captain of some fame, and had not come by it easily. He would be used to Bouveries in the navy's tight world.

It was deeper than that. Driving him, like some unstoppable force. Something personal.

Like the brigantine, which might or might not be following
Unrivalled.
Twice on this passage they had sighted an unknown sail. The lookouts had not been certain; even the impressive Sullivan could not swear to it. But Captain Bolitho had no such doubts. When he had signalled Bouverie for permission to break company and give chase, the request had been denied with a curt
negative
.

Galbraith had heard him exclaim, ‘This is a ship of war! I'm no grocery captain, damn his eyes!'

Galbraith recognised the light step now, and heard his passing comment to the master's mate. Then he saw the open shirt, rippling in the soft wind, and remembered the savage scar he had seen above his ribs when he had found him shaving in his cabin. He was lucky to be alive.

Bolitho had seen his eyes, and said, ‘They made a good job of it!' And had grinned, and only for a second or so Galbraith had seen the youth override the experience and the memories.

A good job.
Galbraith had heard the surgeon mention that when Adam Bolitho had been captured, more dead than alive, he had been operated on by the American ship's surgeon, who had in fact been French.

‘Good morning, Mr Galbraith. Everything is as it was, I see?' He was looking up at the topsails. ‘I could make her
fly
if I got the word!'

Pride? It was stronger than that. It was more like love.

He moved to the compass box and nodded to the helmsmen, and their eyes followed him further still, to the canvas-covered table.

‘We shall exercise the main battery during the forenoon, Mr Galbraith.'

Galbraith smiled. That would go round the ship like a fast fuse. But it had to be said that the gun crews were improving.

‘And call the hands a quarter-hour earlier. I expect a smart ship today. And I want our people properly fed, not making do with muck!'

Another side. Captain Bolitho had already disrated the cook for wasting food and careless preparation. Many captains would not have cared.

He was holding the same little lamp, but did not seem to be looking at the chart, and Galbraith heard him say quietly, ‘June sixth. I had all but forgot!'

‘May I share it, sir?'

For a moment he thought he had gone too far. But Adam merely looked at him, his face hidden in shadow.

‘I was thinking of some wild roses, and a lady.' He turned away, as if afraid of what he might disclose. ‘On my birthday.' Then, abruptly, ‘The wind! By God,
the wind
!'

It was as though the ship had sensed his change of mood. Blocks and halliards rattled, and above their heads the main topsail boomed like a drum.

Adam said, ‘Belay my last order! Call all hands directly!' He gripped Galbraith's arm as if to emphasise the importance of what he was saying. ‘We shall sight land today! Don't you see, if we
are
being followed it's their last chance to outreach us!'

Galbraith knew it was pointless to question his sudden excitement. At first light they should be changing tack to take station on
Matchless
again. There was not a shred of evidence that the occasional sightings of a far-off sail were significant, or connected in any way. But the impetuous grip on his arm seemed to cast all doubt to the rising wind.

He swung round. ‘Pipe all hands, Mr Woodthorpe! And send for the master, fast as you can!'

He turned back to the indistinct outline. ‘Captain Bouverie may not approve, sir.'

Adam Bolitho said quietly, ‘But Captain Bouverie is not yet in sight, is he?'

Men rushed out of the shadows, some still dazed by sleep, staring around at the flapping canvas and straining rigging until order and discipline took command.

The master, feet bare, stumped across the sloping deck, muttering, ‘Is there no peace?' Then he saw the captain. ‘New course, sir?'

‘We will wear ship, Mr Cristie! As close to the wind as she'll come!'

Calls shrilled and men scrambled aloft, the perils of working in darkness no longer a threat now to most of them.

Blocks squealed, and someone stumbled over a snaking line, which was slithering across the damp planking as if it were truly alive.

But she was answering, from the instant that the big double-wheel was hauled over.

Galbraith gripped a backstay and felt the deck tilting still further. In the darkness everything was wilder, louder, as if the ship were responding to her captain's recklessness. He dashed spray from his face and saw pale stars spiralling around the masthead pendant. It was all but dawn. He looked towards the
captain. Suppose the sea was empty? And there was no other vessel? He thought of Bouverie, what might happen, and knew, without understanding why, that this was a contest.

Unrivalled
completed her turn, water rushing down the lee scuppers as the sails refilled on the opposite tack, the jib cracking loudly, as close to the wind as she could hold.

Cristie shouted, ‘Steady as she goes, sir! East-by-south!'

Afterwards, Galbraith thought it was the only time he had ever heard the master either impressed or surprised.

‘Make fast!
Belay!
'

Men ran to obey each command; to any landsman it would appear a single, confused tangle of canvas and straining cordage.

Adam Bolitho gripped the rail and said, ‘Now she
flies
! Feel her!'

Galbraith turned, but shook his head and did not speak. The captain was quite alone with his ship.

‘Hands aloft, Mr Lomax! Get the t'gallants on her and put more men on the maincourse! They're like a pack of old women today!'